Weakness
by SweetDreamsAreMadeOfNaruto
Summary: Draco gets the better of Harry. Victory doesn't taste as sweet as he imagined it. 'Rain falls on us both. Water drips off my nose and water is streaming down Harry's open face. His hair is drenched and cold. Time seems to stand still. I could have stood before the Dark Lord now. Why am I hesitating' Drarry ONESHOT


Disclaimer! Characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

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**Weakness  
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A Harry Potter Fanfiction

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I am a Death Eater.

This is what I have been dreaming of for years.

So why, now that I finally have Potter in my grasp, is the thought of handing him over to the Dark Lord so unbearable?

Potter lies limbless in my arms, his pulse faint. His head is tilted back, my fingers entwined in black hair. His face is frightfully pale and void of emotions.

He doesn't look like an enemy.

He doesn't look merely unconscious, either. He looks unguarded, more so than I have ever seen him before, like harm can no longer befall him. His body is slack, utterly relaxed; as though he has fallen into a sleep deeper than that of any living; an eternal slumber, in which he can finally find rest – rest that this world has refused him.

He looks dead.

Had I not heard his slow, shallow breaths, I might have thought he was.

Rain falls on both of us. Water drips off my nose and water is streaming down Harry's open face. His hair is drenched and cold. His lips are parted, eyebrows unfurrowed. It hits me that he looks terribly young like this. Less like a teenager, and more like a boy.

Time seems to stand still.

I could have stood before the Dark Lord now. There is no excuse for what I am doing. If I had wanted to relish in the moment, to gloat before handing him in, I could have justified lingering, if only to myself – but I _don't_.

I _should _want it, but I don't.

So why am I hesitating?

Why am I just standing here, staring at Potter's face?

He is coming to now, slowly. A weak flutter of his eyelashes, a tremor in his arms betrays that he is returning to the world of the living. He blinks and awakens, and he must take in my presence, but he has no energy left, and he doesn't fight me.

The unexpected wave of sorrow I feel at that is inexplicable. I don't want it to end like this. I don't want Potter to give up.

I come to realize that I don't want him to lose, either.

More than anything though_, I don't want him to die_.

Why do I feel this way? How could I not want him to lose? I _hate _him. To have Potter in my mercy is what I've wanted for _ages._ Why it is that victory gives me no satisfaction?

Potter's eyes opens and meet mine.

My heart thuds.

His muscles doesn't even twitch. His wand is broken – _merlin, what have I done_ – and fighting would be futile, when there is no back-up in sight. No back-up on its way, either. Potter is on his own, and it will take hours before he regains full agility. He knows that. So he doesn't even try.

He knows that he has lost, seemed to know it from the moment he regained consciousness, and he has accepted it – it's written over his every feature, from the weariness in his eyes to his unclenched fists and slack jaw. He has accepted defeat. Death. It is so unlike him to just _give up_ like that that my chest constricts painfully.

_I never wanted any of this._

His eyes are impossibly green. Vividly, vibrantly green; encircled by dark emerald and speckled with bright hazel. Vulnerable, without his glasses. Unshielded. For all their splendour they have never before seemed so lifeless. It's as if the entire world has lost its colours and there is nothing more for those beautiful eyes to see. As if all life has died around him, and so, he too is dying. The intensity is lost, the fire gone.

It's wrong.

Potter's eyes used to _blaze_.

There's a flutter of his eyelashes, and Harry's eyes close.

The rain continues to fall in the grey, bleary dusk. In comparison to Potter's eyes everything else seems dull and colourless; washed-out.

A world without Potter doesn't seem worth living.

The sky cries, inconsolable.

I remain motionless.

'_There's no time for hesitation,'_ a voice in my head says. _'No second thoughts. No regrets. You've done well, the Dark Lord will be proud, there is no use fighting, you can't go back now there is no place for you with them you've made your choice' _and_ '__**take him to me.**_**'**

I take a deep breath, spin around to apparate–

And stop.

Because Harry – _no, Potter, always Potter,_ **only**_ Potter_ – grasps my cloak. The grip is weak, and his hand trembling – the only sign of fear he shows, but no, that's not fear at all, it's just the lingering effects of the curse. I tense, but Potter doesn't do anything more. He just looks at me, through a slit of dark, wet eyelashes, no glass to hide behind… and he just _looks_. There is no pleading to be found in those eyes, no fear, not even anger – it's as if he is too tired to feel anything at all.

But he looks and there is _something_.

His gaze is making me weaker, and the worst part of it all is that Potter isn't even trying to do anything, I _know_ he's not. He's already given up. There's no plan, no plot, no _meaning_.

I don't understand what he is trying to tell me.

I can't… I can't keep looking in his eyes, but I can't look away from them, either.

Potter's head is still tilted back, neck arched, and there is so much surrender in that pose, like he doesn't even care any longer… and perhaps he doesn't.

Something tugs in me. An unexpected, inexplicable, _unforgivable_ feeling.

My eyes are drawn to the pale, exposed throat. I don't want to slit it. I don't even want to wrap my hands around it. I want to lean closer. I want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and breathe him in. Lick and nibble and taste, make him shudder, but not in fear, make him draw me closer, _touch me too…_

That's dangerous thoughts, so I look back into his eyes, but that's even worse.

I pull him against myself. With Harry this close, at least I can avoid his eyes.

He doesn't do anything. There's no reaction. No indignant noise, no sound of disgust. Nothing. He doesn't even attempt to steal my wand, and I know he won't try later on, either. Potter has always been too easy to read for his own good, and there is no fight left in his body.

…it makes me want to protect and shelter him.

There is surely a biological explanation for this desire, but never before have _I_ wanted to protect the vulnerable – I _resent_ weakness.

I'm the worst of Slytherin – I'm selfish, self-serving, and _proud_ of it – so why does it even cross my mind to protect this boy, when I know it would cost me my life?

The Dark Mark burns.

I spin around and apparate, Harry in my arms.

Hogwarts becomes visible at some distance before me, and I throw a curse at the barrier before I put Harry down against the truck of a nearby tree, doing the most reckless, stupid, _idiotic _thing I have ever done in my entire life by pressing my wand – _why, I don't want to leave it, it's a part of me, I'm nothing without it_, _**nothing**_ – into his hand.

The look of surprise that crosses his face – the flicker of _life_ in Harry's eyes – almost makes it worth it. For a second it feels as if we're friends, after all, and it's… nice, to feel that way, and it gives me enough courage – and what a foreign feeling it is – to apparate before I can think to regret it, apparate unwavering to the side of the Dark Lord, and face death… or do the impossible.

Betray the Dark Lord, and live with it.

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**A/N** Thank you for reading! If you liked it... well, I love reviews. :P All and any feedback is welcome, I aspire to be the best author I can!


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